


Fade

by canistakahari



Series: FBI AU [1]
Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Blow Jobs, FBI AU, M/M, Serious Injuries, Spies & Secret Agents, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-26
Updated: 2012-09-26
Packaged: 2017-11-15 02:31:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/522178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canistakahari/pseuds/canistakahari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>McCoy’s been an agent for a long time, and a young, cocky, obnoxious new partner is exactly what he <i>doesn’t</i> need, dammit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fade

**Author's Note:**

> FBI Agent AU. This is all [affectingly’s](affectingly.livejournal.com) fault. I know nothing of the FBI, so there’s liberal creative license taken here.

  
******

  
Jim realizes, after about ten minutes, that the men in the room probably have no idea he can actually  _hear_  them.   
  
They know he’s there, apparently, waiting to be called in, but the way they’re talking seems to imply assurance of privacy, and although he knows he should move across the hall and wait in  _those_  chairs instead of the one he’s currently sitting in, he can’t bring himself to go. It’s not every day you get to overhear this kind of shit, and Jim Kirk is nothing if not opportunistic.   
  
He’d arrived on time for the meeting, and a pretty secretary with an absolutely cracking ass had led him down miles of identical corridor until they entered a secure section. There were unmarked doors, and chairs positioned outside them; Jim thought they looked like interrogation rooms.   
  
The woman seated him with an outstretched hand to indicate the vibrantly orange plastic chair, said Assistant Director Pike was inside with the man that was going to be Jim’s new partner, and they’d call for him when they were ready.   
  
They already knew he was here, she said as she left.   
  
Jim found that creepy.   
  
In fact, Jim finds everything to do with the FBI creepy; he gets only a mild sense of relief that he’s working  _for_  the Feds and not  _against_  them, because so far they’ve proven themselves to be utterly terrifying in their efficiency.   
  
Only after a little while spent waiting, when he’d compartmentalized and reviewed everything he’d seen up to this point and started doing long division in his head out of boredom, did Jim notice the conversation drifting into his ears. He’d turned his head and noticed that the door was open about two or three inches, and the men inside weren’t really making an effort to lower their voices. Well, one of them was; Jim recognized Pike’s calm, easy voice drifting through the crack in the door, but the other man had a clear, deep rumble.   
  
At first, like stereotypical manly men, sports scores and equally mindless crap were the conversation fodder. Jim’s not sure because he kept tuning out, so it could’ve been super secret government code or something, but now, as the subject turns infinitely more interesting, Jim is suddenly positive they must think no one is listening.  
  
“I don’t want a partner, Chris,” the mystery man is saying. Jim oh-so-discreetly leans his body to the right, listening without actually turning his head towards the door in a brief fit of paranoia that someone might be watching him.   
  
“I’ve told you bastards a million fucking times, I ain’t doing that shit again. I work best alone, and you know it.”  
  
“Leo,” Pike replies, his voice finally floating clearly to Jim’s ears. “Leonard, listen to me. I know why you’re being stubborn about this, and damn your pride, because you were the best training agent we had, until –-”  
  
“Don’t say it,” snaps ‘Leonard’, his tone a flashing red warning. “It’s as good a reason as any to never want to go through that again. I was careless and I got shot. If I’d been on my own, that would’ve been fine, right? But I wasn’t. And the kid died, Chris. He  _died_. I couldn’t do anything, I just watched him bleed out, and then I was lucky the same didn’t happen to me. In fact, it would’ve been better the other way around.”  
  
There’s silence, then, and Jim realizes he’s holding his breath. Eventually, Pike resumes speaking, and he sounds quiet and resigned. “You haven’t got a choice, Leonard. You either do this, or they cut you loose.”  
  
“A chance to redeem myself?” grunts Leonard, sharply bitter. “Take on some hotshot kid that everyone’s creaming their pants over?”  
  
Jim snorts aloud at this, and he’s smothering a laugh when he notices the room beyond the door has gone silent again.   
  
“Jim?” calls Pike, and Jim freezes. “Kirk, get in here.”  
  
Jim stands, straightens his tie, and slips into the room, a smile pasted sheepishly over his face. “Sorry. The door was open a crack, I didn’t want to interrupt –-”  
  
He stops short, physically and mentally, because Chris Pike is sitting across the table from the hottest  _mess_  of a man Jim has seen in his entire life. Leonard is dark-haired and unshaven, his eyes some shade of brown or green or both, Jim isn’t sure, and he’s gazing intently across the small room at Jim like he’s weighing him in his mind and finding the whole process too damn tedious to bother with.   
  
Jim clears his throat, fingers fumbling with his tie, and then he shoves the jangle of nerves aside -– he’s  _James fucking Kirk_ , he doesn’t get  _nervous_  -– and beams at them both. “Sorry, I decided it might be advantageous to listen in and see what I was in for. Jim Kirk,” he introduces himself, sticking his hand in the stranger’s face.   
  
The man -–  _Leonard_ , who still names their kid  _Leonard_ , for fuck’s sake –- blinks at Jim and reluctantly takes his hand, shaking it perfunctorily. His hair is neat, but he maybe really needs a shave, and his clothes are so rumpled he probably slept in them. His tie is askew, collar crooked, and his dress shirt is white and clean but un-tucked messily. When Jim sits next to Pike in the only available chair, he can smell his cologne, sharp and clean.   
  
“Leonard McCoy,” he drawls, his expression doing something spastic as he tries not to roll his eyes at Jim’s apparent continued existence. “You can call me McCoy, on account of it being my name. For the record, we’re not going to be friends.”  
  
“Well, thank God for that, I’m completely overrun with friends right now,” Jim retorts, raising his eyebrows. “I am  _friended out_. Totally inundated.” He shoots a quick look at Pike, who’s settled back with a vague grin on his face. Is this guy for  _real_?   
  
“’Course you do,” snorts McCoy, and his gaze lingers on Jim for a minute, softening almost imperceptibly, before he stands and pushes the chair back under the table with too much force.   
  
He’s missed his shirt buttons by one, and there’s a resultant gap near his navel that shows a peek of tanned, taut flesh and a sprinkle of dark hair. Jim tries not to stare.   
  
“Right, Chris, we done? I ain’t got no choice, so I’m going home. I guess I’ll be seeing you tomorrow, kid, don’t be late.”  
  
He brushes past Jim as he leaves, deliberately, and Jim blinks in utter bewilderment.   
  
When McCoy is safely out of the room, he turns to stare at Pike. “What the  _hell_. Does he actually exist? That wasn’t a hallucination?”  
  
“He’s the best we’ve got, Kirk,” Pike says dryly, turning an appraising gaze on him, gauging his reaction to what is clearly turning out to be a weird fucking day for Jim. “And we want him working with the best new talent we’ve seen in a while. I think you two will be good for each other.”  
  
“Yeah, if he doesn’t kill me with his bare hands first and then feast on my flesh,” Jim protests, making a violent gesture. “The guy hates me!”  
  
“The only person McCoy actually hates is his ex-wife, and that’s probably exaggeration too,” Pike smirks. “He’s a soft-hearted bastard. He just likes to pretend the world is out to get him.”  
  
“Probably because he’s  _the devil_ ,” Jim mumbles, sinking down in his seat.  
  
“How much did you hear?” Pike asks abruptly.   
  
“Uh, probably more than I should’ve?” suggests Jim, with another sheepish grin, the one that normally makes people forget why they were ever mad at him in the first place.   
  
It never works with Pike.   
  
“Don’t bring it up with McCoy. Don’t ask him about himself, or his past, or any of that shit you like to do to ingratiate yourself with people. He’s private, and he’ll treat you like dirt for a few days till he gets an idea of what sort of person you are. But he’s going to try desperately to keep himself from getting close to you. Don’t let him, but don’t pry, either. I’m serious about you two needing each other.”  
  
“It’s not like we’re getting married,” scoffs Jim. “I know how to work with superior officers. I’m aware we’re not gonna be BFF, man, I’m not braiding friendship bracelets in my spare time.”  
  
“Just don’t piss him off, Jim,” sighs Pike. “Be good.”  


oOo

  
  
So of course Jim  _immediately_  pisses McCoy off.   
  
He doesn’t mean to be late, really he doesn’t, but the expressway is jam-fucking-packed this early in the morning, and Jim’s elderly little Honda has an aneurysm about a block away from the Bureau field office, so Jim has to leave it illegally parked as he runs -– fucking  _runs_  –- down the street in his new suit, bag hanging off his shoulder.   
  
He huffs into the building at eight-thirty one, which is half an hour too late, but he does manage to grab a coffee and doughnut from the stand in the lobby. Unfortunately, this just means he happens to be palming a disastrously hot beverage when he runs right smack into McCoy on the elevator.   
  
“God-fucking- _dammit_ , kid!” shouts McCoy, startled, as coffee slops between them both. That would’ve been the end of it, but bumping into McCoy launches the cup up, and it arcs spectacularly over their heads in slow motion while Jim looks on in dismay, his latte’s final resting place in McCoy’s hair, dribbling down at glacial speed.  
  
He actually looks like he’s about to have a stroke, so Jim hurriedly grabs a handful of napkins out of his pocket and starts to pat him down.   
  
“Sorry! I’m sorry,  _God_ , fuck, there’s –- uh, whipped cream, in your eye, ow, does that hurt? Fuck. Where were you going? I was just coming up to meet you,” he blurts, horrified, because oh my  _God_ , he’s just soaked his new partner with scalding hot coffee, and Pike is going to  _kick him in the fucking face_  when he hears about this.  
  
“I was just leaving,” snarls McCoy, snatching the napkin and wiping at his eyes, his teeth gritted in anger or pain, Jim can’t quite tell. “Seeing as I told you to be here at eight, and you weren’t, I just spent half a fucking hour staring at the walls when I could’ve been doing something  _useful_  with my time, like curing cancer, or engineering the catalyst for world peace.”  
  
“Fuck, no, don’t,” cries Jim, winding the damp napkins into a knot with shaky, coffee-burnt hands. “I’m so,  _so_  sorry, I just, the traffic was total  _balls_ , and then my car broke down, seriously, and it’s probably gonna get towed before the end of day –-”  
  
“Well, I’m so,  _so_  sorry that I don’t actually give a fuck,” growls McCoy mockingly, and he starts to shove past Jim to exit the elevator back into the lobby.   
  
“Wait!” yells Jim, following him. McCoy turns, and yeah, his eyes are dark and blazing with anger, and he’s still dressed in that god-awful, ill-fitting suit which now has the added bonus of dark brown stains splotched across it, but he’s shaved and he’s completely different without the manic-looking scruff he’d been sporting yesterday. There are dark circles under his eyes, and Jim guesses he’s not entirely pissed at just him.   
  
“It’s Boston Cream,” Jim says, uselessly, holding out the doughnut to McCoy. “Please don’t go?”  
  
McCoy stares incredulously at the doughnut, an expression of stunned disbelief on his face that seems to imply deep-fried pastries once got together and gunned down his favourite dog, but then, interminable seconds later, he reaches for it.   
  
Jim breathes a sigh of relief. “It couldn’t possibly get worse from here, right?”  
  
“Jesus fuck, kid, don’t you know never to say shit like that?” demands McCoy, with an exaggerated flinch, but there’s a tiny quirk of his lip, like he’s trying to remember how to smile after years spent scowling at the world through a haze of cynical, bitter hatred.   
  
He walks back into the elevator and pounds his fist over the  _close doors_  button. “You’re lucky you have good taste in doughnuts,” mutters McCoy, sticking his fingers inside the confection and sucking thick custard off his thumb.   
  
Jim laughs, and thumps back against the wall, closing his eyes in relief.   
  
“It was all they had left,” he admits.  


oOo

  
  
The first time Jim drives them anywhere, he seems to belatedly remember his car is a mess.   
  
It’s lunch time, five days after Jim baptized McCoy with his coffee, and Jim really fucking wants a taco or something. He wheedles at McCoy, who seems to carry the same lunch to work every day in a little plastic Ziploc bag: smoked ham and cheese with mustard on rye.   
  
McCoy must be tired, or just really sick of ham and cheese, because it doesn’t take much time to convince him to let Jim drive them somewhere else for a meal.   
  
What  _does_  take time is Jim frantically shoving garbage into the backseat, the passenger side door open while his ass hangs out. He completely forgot to return Gaila’s weird little plant, and it’s on the passenger seat in a sad pile of dirt.   
  
“Shit!” cries Jim, picking it up by the pot. “Do you think it can be saved, or should I just buy a new one and pretend I kept it alive?”  
  
McCoy doesn’t reply, but Jim can feel his heated stare burning into his back like a  _laser of doom_. He starts shoveling trash and CDs and, oops, condoms, plus his rather extensive collection of lottery tickets into the back, eventually emerging red-faced, grinning at McCoy. There’s a burrito wrapper stuck to his shirt that he doesn’t seem to have noticed, and McCoy narrowly prevents himself from drop-kicking him right there in the friggin’ parking lot.   
  
Instead, as he’s been doing for the past couple of days, he just grits his teeth, keeping calm and carrying on. Pike gave him a Zen tape, that first afternoon, when he heard how Jim and McCoy’s morning had gone.  
  
“Listen to it on the way to work,” Pike said, shoving it into McCoy’s hands. “Trust me, it works wonders.”  
  
So McCoy can tolerate his new situation, but he doesn’t have to enjoy it, and he gets into the car wordlessly, ignores his seatbelt, and crosses his arms, scowling straight ahead like an Egyptian sarcophagus.  
  
If Kirk had proven himself to be a failure in all the training they’ve done lately, and McCoy’s been scheduling every spare minute on the gun range or running through case exercises, then he probably would’ve handed his badge in already. He doesn’t give a shit that Jim’s already been through the basics; he needs to know exactly what he’s learned and how he reacts, but even McCoy has to admit he’s grudgingly impressed by Kirk’s skills.   
  
He’s a crack shot, almost as good as McCoy, and he’s quick, level-headed, and observant.   
  
These things –- and  _only_  these things -– are what keep McCoy in Jim’s car, staring at the hot pink fuzzy dice hanging from the kid’s rear-view mirror as he pulls out of the field office parking complex.   
  
“So what are you in the mood for?” Jim is prattling along, driving with his knees, one arm dangling out the open window while he fiddles with the radio stations with the other.   
  
He settles on something, cranks the volume, and suddenly Lady fucking Gaga is blaring out the speakers so loudly McCoy can feel the synth-pop faux-techno beat vibrating through his  _teeth_.   
  
Jim has started driving with two fingers, apparently happy with the choice of station; McCoy knows better than to fuck with another man’s car stereo, but he does reach down to level the volume by half.   
  
“-- Could really go for some fucking nachos,” Jim is still saying, drumming his fingers. “Or hamburgers. I could always go for hamburgers.”  
  
McCoy sighs, leaning his head against the window in the perfect portrait of despair. Jim isn’t really talking to him. He’d realized this after a few days of trying to actually keep up with the steady litany of bullshit that tumbles out of Jim’s mouth whenever he’s confronted with the looming menace of silence.   
  
“You’re doing it again,” says Jim, and McCoy frowns.   
  
“And what is it that I’m doing again, Mr. Kirk?” demands McCoy, turning to look at Jim in annoyance.   
  
“That heinous offence you’re committing against your knuckles,” Jim returns, his nose wrinkled. “It’s like listening to a chorus of cracking skulls. Gross. Plus, isn’t it terrible for your hands?”  
  
“I’m sorry your delicate constitution objects to the melodious sounds of my neuroses,” McCoy says acidly. “But the ex-wife didn’t leave me with much, besides my own damn bones, and I’ll abuse them however the hell I like. I was in medical school once, and all that crap they tell you about cracking your knuckles and arthritis, that’s bullshit. Now pull over here, I want some goddamned waffles.”  


oOo

  
  
Jim kind of loves Chris Pike, because for an Assistant Director of the FBI, charged, rather terrifyingly, with national security, he sure is a soft fucking touch.   
  
All Jim has to do is bring him back some home fries from the IHOP they stop at, innocently ask when McCoy was ever in medical school, and the strange story of Leonard H. McCoy’s recruitment comes tumbling out.  
  
“Training to be a surgeon? ‘Ole sawbones’, that sort of thing?”  
  
“Yes, Jim, cutting people open to fix the broken bits inside them. That’s what doctors  _do_.”  
  
“But he broke your leg,” says Jim, flatly,  _disbelievingly_.   
  
“Uh huh. With a baseball bat.” Pike seems unmoved.  
  
“By accident.”  
  
“Well, it was late, he saw my gun, I didn’t identify myself -- he thought I was robbing the hospital pharmacy.”   
  
“ _Right_. Not at  _all_  fucking insane.”   
  
Pike is shaking extra salt on his potatoes in complete disregard to his doctor’s concerns for his cholesterol when McCoy stamps back in, scowl on his face, sucking purposefully on the straw of his strawberry milkshake.  
  
Jim turns to him, hits him with the full force of his enormous, blinding grin, and shouts, “Bones! I saved you my biscuit,” and that’s that.   
  
Pike is keeping his face carefully blank, Jim is laughing that Woody Woodpecker-esque giggle of his, and nothing McCoy threatens Jim with is enough to make him stop with the new nickname.  


oOo

  
  
They’re both really competitive on the firing range.   
  
They practice almost every day already, but McCoy finds himself there on a Saturday, bored and restless and dreading his empty fucking apartment, framed photos of Jocelyn and Joanna just there to taunt him from every corner. It’s damp and drizzling out, his shoulder aches like a bitch, and he just wants to empty every scrap of his rage and frustration out into a faceless threat.   
  
He’s gone through about eight rounds, sending bullet after bullet into the heads and hearts and groins of paper assassins when he realizes he’s being watched.   
  
Jim is standing maybe ten feet away, headphones and tinted glasses on, his gun still holstered, and he’s paused in the middle of the walkway with his arms wrapped around his thin chest.   
  
“Hey,” says Jim, when McCoy lowers his gun and releases the empty clip.   
  
“Hey,” replies McCoy, raising his voice to hear himself through the faint ringing in his ears.   
  
They stare at each other for a little while, and Jim eventually finishes his journey over to the booth adjacent to McCoy’s.   
  
“Bet you a pizza and a six-pack you can’t get eight head-shots in a row,” Jim challenges, a half-grin on his face.   
  
“I like Italian sausage,” replies McCoy, and he knows the kid is humouring him, setting him a bogus bet that McCoy could win with his eyes closed, but instead of making him angry, he’s just amused.   
  
He aims, and fires, and then keeps firing, and of course there’s a neat hole in the target when he’s done, centered perfectly on the forehead. Jim’s answering grin is wide and impressed.   
  
“Dude, I will never get tired of watching you do that,” he laughs.   
  
“I hear they make Bud light with lime, now,” responds McCoy, dry as toast.   
  
“Duly noted.”   


oOo

  
  
McCoy actually forgets about it, because he’s the kind of guy that makes bets all the time, it’s not like anything usually comes of them. Sometimes he gets coworkers handing him unexpected ten dollar bills for poker game and pool he’s won, and it’s always a pleasant surprise but nothing he really counts on.   
  
So it’s kind of a shock when he opens his door the next Saturday night and finds Jim Kirk on his doorstep, a pizza in one hand and a case of beer in the other.   
  
“I come bearing gifts,” cries Jim jovially, moving past McCoy into the living room. He doesn’t take off his shoes and he sets the greasy pizza box right on top of the paperwork McCoy had been going over.   
  
McCoy wants to yell, or bluster, or just generally be pissy and difficult, but he can’t bring himself to do it. He hasn’t slept in a little while and he’s so fucking wrecked that he watches dumbly as Jim roots through his kitchen for plates and napkins, emerging with everything stacked in his hands.   
  
He’s grinning that insufferable  _you know you love me_  smile that McCoy has decided he can’t fucking stand, and he seems to sense it, because he pops the top off a bottle of beer and hands it to McCoy as a conciliatory gesture.   
  
“So, this is where you live,” says Jim, flopping down onto the couch and opening the box of pizza.   
  
“Yeah, it is,” replies McCoy, still hovering irritably in the doorway. “Which begs the question, ‘how the fuck did you find out where I  _live_ , kid?’”  
  
Jim gives him a one-shouldered shrug, lifts a piece of pizza on to a plate, and hands that to McCoy, too. He reckons that having McCoy with both hands full means he can’t beat the shit out of him as easily as he normally could.   
  
“I can’t rat out my sources,” Jim grins, and it’s easy to tell he means Pike, because the kid doesn’t  _have_  any other ‘sources’. “And I know, before you say it -– ‘we ain’t friends’, right?”  
  
“Right,” McCoy says warily. This is exactly why he hates having a partner. They exist purely to throw you off balance.  
  
“Sit,” says Jim. “Eat.”  
  
So McCoy sits, and eats.   


oOo

  
  
Jim is pretty damn proud of himself when he makes it through his first three months as Leonard McCoy’s rookie partner.   
  
He knows they’re a pretty common subject of discussion around the field office, but he’s surprised when he overhears the first bit of gossip about them. He’s rounding a corner on the fifth floor, heading for the kitchenette, when he hears his name. Jim throws himself up against the wall, because he’s stealth like that, and strains his ears.   
  
“Yeah, they’ve paired him with McCoy,” says a woman’s voice.   
  
“McCoy?!” demands someone else, a man. “That washed up, cynical old bastard? I hate that guy, our teams worked a case once. We used to know if the coffee was good that day by looking at how much his eyebrow was twitching; if it was spasming all over the place like an incontinent poodle, the coffee was either shitty or nonexistent.”  
  
“He’s certainly got a rep,” replies the woman. “What d’you know about that kid?”  
  
For a minute, Jim thinks they’re talking about him, but the next reply changes his mind. “The one that got killed?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“They were doing a pretty routine drug bust, or something. They both got shot up a treat, but the kid died and McCoy lived.”  
  
“He’s a total hard-ass. I heard he didn’t even go to the kid’s funeral.”  
  
Jim frowns, because that can’t be true, they don’t know McCoy at all. He’s a bastard, sure, there’s really no escaping that, but as far as Jim can tell, all his carefully-cultivated rage is impotent. He cares so much about all the shit going wrong that it frustrates the hell out of him, but he can’t figure out what else to do besides bitch at the innocent bystanders.   
  
McCoy wears his heart, pretty inconveniently, on his sleeve.   
  
Jim is about to step out and start  _kicking some ass_  or, uh, deliver some stern words in a polite fashion, but a hand on his arms stops him. He looks back to find Pike, who inclines his head and leads Jim to an empty office.   
  
“What the hell,” demands Jim. “People actually think that about Bones? If you peeled away all the sarcasm, you’d eventually end up with a really sad, tired dude that’s thirty-two going on eighty.”  
  
“Don’t believe everything you hear, Jim,” Pike replies steadily, unfazed. “Some people who don’t know Leo well enough can think he’s...kind of a prick. They’re not wrong. But who’s going to bother looking further if he gives them no reason to?”  
  
“He does it on purpose?” suggests Jim.  
  
“Of course he does,” agrees Pike. “You can’t be disappointed by anyone if they don’t actually want to get close to you due to raging personality problems.”  
  
“It’s probably pretty impressive that he hasn’t kicked me out on my ass already, right?” asks Jim, frowning vaguely at a stained bit of carpet under his feet.   
  
“Don’t get too comfortable,” warns Pike. “I want you both in my office tonight for a briefing.”  
  
“Ooh,” Jim cries, clapping his hands. “Top secret? Is this a case? My first actual case?”  
  
“Just tell McCoy for me, okay?” sighs Pike. “Honestly, how did you ever even get your security clearance? You’re like the anti-agent. A hyperactive chipmunk with a gun.”  
  
“I took Valium before the lie detector test,” Jim says seriously, and then cracks a lightning-fast grin. “ _Kidding_!”  
  
The expression on Pike’s face is one of stony disdain. Jim sees it a lot.   


oOo

  
  
It turns out, though, that Jim’s security clearance is  _nothing_  compared to McCoy’s.   
  
Jim didn’t even think it went above ‘Top Secret’, but apparently he’s still sitting on the tip of the iceberg, while McCoy’s gone deep-sea diving.   
  
McCoy goes home for a while, after lunch, and returns in the late afternoon looking completely subdued; when Jim tells him about their meeting with Pike, it produces nothing beyond a grunt of acknowledgment. He doesn’t even sound disgruntled, upset, or annoyed, or countless other negative emotions Jim has come to expect from McCoy.   
  
Eventually, after an extended awkward silence that has Jim so fidgety he’s seriously considering lighting something on fire or throwing the computer out the window just to get McCoy to react, McCoy stands, straightens his wrinkled shirt, and says, “Time to go. Wear your badge on your belt; we’re going into some secure areas.”  
  
“Pike’s office is upstairs,” Jim says, wrinkling his forehead and staying put. His feet are propped on the desk, and he’s really fucking comfortable. If he could sneak a porn magazine into a case file, he’d be set for the day.   
  
“We’re not going to that office,” McCoy replies, raising an eyebrow. “Now stand up and make your feet work, kid, you’ve gotta help me out here.”  
  
“I’d rather get a piggy-back ride,” Jim says, hesitating.   
  
“And I’d rather be in Bermuda, drinking on the beach, but you don’t see me being petulant,” retorts McCoy, knocking Jim’s feet off the desk. “Now come on, Jim.”  
  
The elevator they use doesn’t even show the floors they’re going to. What the fuck is up with that? Instead, McCoy swipes his ID card down a magical, mysterious slot Jim has never paid much attention to, and the elevator starts moving down without any further directions.   
  
“This is remarkably Hollywood,” observes Jim. “With the, uh, unmarked floors. Do the movies get their ideas from the FBI, or does the FBI get their ideas from the movies?”  
  
McCoy doesn’t say anything, just glances at Jim and raises his eyebrows again, a mild, unspoken  _what the fuck is your damage?_  kind of face that has become his default expression around Jim. He leads the way out when they stop, down a long hallway. Jim can hear the muted murmur of voices in various rooms, and occasionally people pass them, walking purposefully and never looking either of them in the eye.  
  
Several times, McCoy uses his ID card to open another door, and Jim pauses once, to try his own. Unsurprisingly, he gets a little red light and an angry noise.   
  
“Quit dawdling, kid,” snaps McCoy, from further up the hall. “Pike’s waiting.”  
  
Jim sighs and hurries to catch up, wondering how McCoy even knows, because it’s not like Pike set a meeting time.   
  
But Pike is waiting, in a small office that looks more like a man-sized safe, and it’s nothing like the comfortable, lived-in space he occupies on the thirteenth floor. This room has no photographs, no medals and certificates on the walls, no potted plants. It’s completely bare.   
  
“McCoy, Kirk,” says Pike, as they enter, formality layered over every syllable.   
  
“Sir,” McCoy and Jim chorus together.   
  
Jim only  _just_  manages to smother his laughter before McCoy elbows him in the chest.   


oOo

  
  
So, they get a case.   
  
Jim does a little jig, actually, when they leave Pike’s scary windowless secret bunker, and he tries to time it perfectly so that it’s over by the time McCoy turns around, but he miscalculates, and he’s midair, arms above his head, when his eyes meet McCoy’s.   
  
McCoy’s eyebrows go up, but his expression stays neutral; he’s been weird all day, since he came back from wherever it was he went.   
  
“You done?” he asks.   
  
“Totally,” Jim assures him, carefully lowering his arms. “That was just –- you know, some exercises. Keeping myself limber. It wasn’t at all a really unprofessional expression of total glee.”  
  
“Didn’t think so,” says McCoy. “Suppose we’ll have to up your clearance.” He sounds incredibly reluctant.  
  
“Does this mean I can flash my badge at cops if I get pulled over for speeding?” Jim asks, momentarily derailed by the thought of never getting a ticket again.   
  
“It would, if your car could actually go faster than 50 miles per hour,” retorts McCoy. They walk quietly down yet another length of plain hallway, and then he asks, “Have you ever actually killed anyone before?”  
  
Jim pauses, says, “Yeah. But it wasn’t while I was on the job.”  
  
McCoy’s face twitches, and he grits his teeth, his lip lifting in a disbelieving little sneer. “I don’t even want to know if you’re kidding or not. You realize this is a big deal, right? First case dropped on our heads, and we’ve got targets to bring in that will potentially be violent.”  
  
Jim shrugs. “Did you think they’d put us on traffic, or something? We’re not cops, Bones, I knew we weren’t going to sit around making daisy chains. Are you worried I’m gonna fuck it up? Because I’m not worried. I’m actually kinda hungry.”  
  
McCoy snorts out a laugh, startled, and shakes his head. “Fuck you, kid. Fine, you ain’t gonna worry, then I will. Pike is testing us.”  
  
“Chill, dude,” soothes Jim, putting a hand on his shoulder and leading them out into the corridor. “C’mon, I’ll buy you some cheese fries and a beer.”  
  
“No,” says McCoy, shaking off his arm. “No, because I’m not going to the bar with you. I’m going home. That’s where you should go, too. Your home, not mine.”  
  
He picks up the pace, hurrying away from Jim in a manner Jim finds  _totally rude_ , but he jogs to keep up because he doesn’t really want to get left behind in this rabbit warren, and McCoy has the keycard to get them out.   


oOo

  
  
It isn’t until much later, when Jim is lying in bed staring at the ceiling, that he remembers the things he’s been overhearing about McCoy.   
  
Suddenly, the nervous worry makes sense; McCoy isn’t afraid  _Jim_  is going to screw up.   


oOo

  
  
The mission –- well, it’s not really a mission, but Jim’s been calling it that in his head (along with an accompanying soundtrack that comes straight out of a video game) for pretty much the entire day -– goes okay.   
  
And –- well, honestly –- if ‘okay’ means ‘not very well at all’, and if ‘not very well at all’ means ‘a total fucking disaster’, then Jim is being accurate instead of lying spectacularly to himself.   
  
They bring in the two drug traffickers.   
  
That’s not the part that goes badly.   
  
In fact, the entire first half of the bust is great. Awesome, really.   
  
Jim is wearing his new navy FBI windbreaker, and he’s wrapped up in Kevlar and clutching his gun, and he feels absolutely badass and completely in control. It’s over in about five fucking minutes; the men they’re looking for are holed up in the bedroom with a couple of hookers and Jim once again stops to consider whether his life has become a movie somewhere along the way.   
  
Everything goes wrong when they’re in the bathroom, the problem being they can’t actually  _find_  any of the fucking drugs. According to all the wire-tapping they’ve been doing for two goddamned weeks, there’s nearly a ton of high-grade Colombian cocaine hidden in the apartment, and Jim and McCoy can’t find any of it.   
  
“You think they moved it?” asks Jim, frustrated. He’s currently crouched in front of a cabinet, ripping out the contents, throwing toothbrushes and Kleenex and tiny travel-sized bottles of shampoo over his shoulder in a shower of reluctant toiletries.   
  
McCoy is standing in the shower, staring up at the ceiling. “No. No, I don’t think so. They were incredibly reluctant to leave. Not smug at all, like dipshits who’ve moved their stash usually are.”  
  
“What are you thinking?” Jim comes to stand near McCoy, and raises his head to look at the ceiling.   
  
“There,” says McCoy, pointing. “That’s been repaired recently. You thinkin’ what I’m thinking?”  
  
“Time to take over the world?” asks Jim. “You think it’s all in the ceiling?”  
  
“Grab something long, I’ll see if I can nudge a tile loose,” suggests McCoy.   
  
Jim glances to the side and finds a filthy mop sitting in a stagnant bucket. He hands it to McCoy and steps back.   
  
It doesn’t quite make sense, because all McCoy does, really, is thump the end of the mop into a crumbling ceiling tile, and then there’s a dull, muffled  _thunk_ , and before either of them can do anything, the tile falls down, something makes a noise like a firecracker, and, in a rush, fifteen pounds of cocaine explode out of the ceiling, coating McCoy from head to toe.  
  
The rest of the drug rises in a mushroom cloud of thin, powdery dust, vomiting out of the hole in the ceiling in a storm of clouds and spreading out to stick to every surface in the tiny room.   
  
Jim has the foresight to shut his eyes and stop breathing until the dust settles. McCoy is kneeling in the shower, coughing helplessly as he sloughs thick layers of white powder off his jacket, muttering, “Fuck, fuck, fuck,  _fuck_ ,” under his breath.   
  
“Did you swallow any of it?” demands Jim, his hand still over his mouth as he throws himself at McCoy, wiping the shit out of his hair for him.   
  
“No,” sputters McCoy. “Fuck. I can’t see, kid, I can’t open my eyes. I think –- I think I breathed a little in.”  
  
“Okay, it’s okay,” says Jim frantically, and –- it really does seem like a good idea at the time -- he drags McCoy upright in the shower, turning the water on, a steadying arm around McCoy’s waist.   
  
They’re shivering, by the time they’re both even just marginally clean, and soaked to the skin.   
  
“Fuck,” repeats McCoy, pressed tight to Jim’s chest and shaking bodily. “We just washed away half the evidence, Jim.”  
  
Jim doesn’t say anything for a long moment. He’s too busy staring up at the smoking hole in the ceiling, where flames are now licking at the edges of the tiles.   
  
“We also lit the rest  _on fire_ ,” he finally says.   
  
“Oh,  _fuck_.”  


oOo

  
  
Pike is there, when they’re waiting in the ambulance, and he doesn’t say anything as he takes in the white streaks on their clothing, or in their hair. Jim’s eyes are glassy and red, and there’s a faint smile on his face; McCoy looks more haggard than usual, but he keeps letting out sharp, paranoid barks of laughter.   
  
“So the boys tell me you’re both high as a kite,” Pike says conversationally.  
  
Jim’s lip twitches, and McCoy laughs again, bright and brittle and sharp.   
  
“Hospital,” snaps Pike. “ _Now_.”  


oOo

  
  
It’s been, by far, one of the worst days of his life since everything  _in_  his life started falling apart, and Leonard McCoy has wrapped himself in an old terrycloth bathrobe after his fifth shower of the evening, and he has a bottle of quality bourbon that he plans to enjoy until his brain liquefies in his skull.   
  
He’s settled down on the couch, a book in hand, when the doorbell rings.   
  
McCoy seriously, honestly, attempts to ignore it. He ignores it when whoever is outside leans on the bell for an entire minute, and he ignores it when it rings in quick succession, over and over and over, and he ignores it when the bell is abandoned and a chorus of knocks pound into his door instead. By this point, though, he’s got a strong suspicion of who’s out there, and he very reluctantly gets to his feet and pads over.   
  
He finds Jim on his doorstep, a duffle bag over his shoulder.   
  
“No,” says McCoy, preemptively.   
  
“You haven’t even let me explain,” protests Jim. “I got –-”  
  
“Kicked out by a girl?” interrupts McCoy, holding the door open with one arm in the way, so Jim can’t slip inside without getting a knee in the groin. “Lost? Hit so hard in the head you got amnesia and forgot where you lived?”  
  
“Evicted,” offers Jim, and the smile fades a little from his face. “Which was  _so not my fault_. I was hoping, you know, I might be able to crash with you for a bit.”  
  
“What part of ‘we will never be friends’ do you not understand?” snaps McCoy. His head is aching, and his skin still itches like he’s growing out of his own skin. “I didn’t think the words had that many syllables, kid. Do I need to write it down for you? Act it out in a play? Express myself through interpretive dance?”  
  
“No, though I’d pay to see that last one,” says Jim, shifting the bag on his shoulder. He looks tired and nervous, like he’s expecting a punch in the eye, and McCoy grits his teeth, promising himself rather half-heartedly that he won’t give in.   
  
“Then what?” growls McCoy. “You must have an actual friend to stay with. Or money for a hotel. I know how much you make, it’s gotta be enough for the Super 8.”  
  
Jim doesn’t say anything, just continues standing awkwardly. His wide, honest gaze is making McCoy uncomfortable. And, with a complete lack of warning, McCoy is blindsided by a rush of memories he really doesn't want to deal with -- standing on his own driveway, while Jocelyn threw his bags out of her --  _their_  -- second-story bedroom window, telling him in tight, controlled, quiet tones which reached his ears despite the height that he was not to come back, and her lawyers would be contacting him in the morning. And he remembers the finality of the window closing, and how his head had felt empty, curiously light, a rushing in his ears like wind. Standing alone, a bag over his shoulder, wondering where to go. Whether to bother at all.  
  
He shouldn't. He knows he shouldn't. He doesn't want to get close to the kid, doesn't want to like him, and Jim's been a monumental pain in the ass but he can still feel his arms around his chest, holding him up steadily in the shower and helping him rinse away the drugs, sturdy, competent, reliable.   
  
He sighs, softly, a defeated, whispered sound. "C'mon in, then," he mumbles, running his fingers through his damp hair and stepping aside. "But you're on the couch, and only until you find something better."  
  
"Sure, Bones," agrees Jim, subdued and grateful. He follows McCoy into the living room, and sits in exactly the same chair he selected the last time he'd shown up unexpectedly.  
  
McCoy sits across from him on the sofa, and they stare at each other for an indescribably awkward moment, before Jim seems to get over his temporary attempt at silence, pointing at McCoy's feet and saying, "So. Bunny slippers, huh?"  
  
McCoy goes red from chin to forehead like a bartender filling a glass of tomato juice. Jim is manfully restraining himself from losing his shit entirely and laughing right in McCoy's face, but he's never seen anyone actually turn into a cartoon character from  _Bugs Bunny_  before and the sight is a bit of a novelty.   
  
"Are you still high?" snaps McCoy, folding his arms tight over his chest. "They were a present from my daughter."  
  
That shuts Jim right the fuck up, and McCoy immediately regrets saying it.   
  
"Daughter?" echoes Jim. "You have a daughter?"  
  
"Yes," growls McCoy. "I do. What's the problem?"  
  
"I just can't really imagine you with children," replies Jim, smothering another wave of what’s sure to be girlish laughter. "You're -- you're like Eeyore: uncomfortable with life, and everyone in it. How old is she?"  
  
"Get your feet off the table," McCoy says abruptly. He waits, patiently, as Jim lowers his sneakers, and then grudgingly mutters, "Ten. She's ten. Her birthday was a couple weeks ago." And damned if they don't keep on spilling out, all sorts of things he doesn't want to be saying, but his mouth seems stuck on the 'share the details of your pitiful life' setting and McCoy can't muster the energy to stop.   
  
He can  _see_  Jim mulling it over, identifies the exact moment he seems to realize how McCoy was acting a few weeks ago; it looks like he's going to let it go, but then Jim proves he's perfecting and putting a patent on that special brand of obnoxious, invasive charm that only seems to work for frat boys and stand up comedians and he says, loudly, "Is that what was wrong with you, when we had the meeting with Pike? It was your daughter's birthday?"  
  
McCoy bites down hard on the inside of his cheek. This time, Jim takes the hint, and he subsides again, leaning back in the armchair, legs spread, his head tipped to the side. McCoy lets his gaze trail down Jim's chest, settling on his jean-clad thighs, the well-worn material hugging his legs snugly. It takes him a pathetically long amount of time to realize he's actually checking Jim out, whereas Jim is inviting it, his eyes intent on McCoy.   
  
When he notices, McCoy clears his throat and gets to his feet. "I'm going to bed," he says, in a tone of voice he hopes conveys ample amounts of  _quit fucking with me, kid_. "I'll get you a blanket and a pillow for the couch. You can help yourself to anything in the fridge and in the liquor cabinet except for the unopened bottles. There are towels in the closet by the bathroom, and the bathroom itself is down the hall, second door on the right. The hot water tap in the shower sticks, you have to give it a bit of a kick."  
  
Jim takes this all in with the same languid, easy smile on his face, nodding along with McCoy's words. "I'll make sure to drink all your beer and eat everything that isn't nailed down."  
  
McCoy grunts, leveling a suspicious, cranky glare at him, before shuffling off to retrieve bedding. His slippers squeak with every step, and McCoy can hear Jim laughing quietly to himself behind him.   
  
It's times like this, while repressing homicidal urges of the distinctly violent and painful variety, that McCoy wishes he'd never quit smoking.   


oOo

  
  
When he leaves him, Jim is making himself comfortable on the couch, long legs sprawled out over the armrest. He's got the TV on, muted with subtitles, and has somehow made himself a pretty tasty looking sandwich despite the fact that McCoy is almost certain he has nothing resembling cold cuts, lettuce, mayonnaise, or tomatoes in his kitchen. He's tempted to ask Jim where he got it, but he just sets the blanket and pillow down and waves off the muffled, "thanks, Bones," that Jim slurs out around a mouthful of bread, heading back to his room with single-minded determination.  
  
It's only after he's shut the door, turned off the lights, shed his clothes, and climbed into bed that he lets himself slide a hand down between his legs, stroking himself half-heartedly through his boxers with shallow, trembling breaths. It's bewilderingly inappropriate, and he's not sure why he's doing it, especially when Jim is right down the hall, but he grinds his palm down and hisses sharply anyway.  
  
It doesn't get him anywhere, though, and after a few minutes of frustrated manhandling, his erection subsides, wilting in the face of the swirling vortex of  _worry worry pain panic fear annoyance anger more motherfucking worry_  constantly looping through his head. He can't relax like this, not when he's curled up with his shoulders hitched up to his ears.   
  
"Dammit Jim," he mutters, adjusting himself in his boxers and turning onto his stomach.   
  
He jams his pillow over his head and lies still until he's in that half-awake, half-asleep state that precludes actual rest, and as a result, he thinks he's dreaming when, minutes or hours later, he has no idea, the bed dips and the covers shift. Fingers trail down his bare back, and McCoy makes a soft snuffling noise, lips parting he exhales. He reaches for the hand, which -- jerks away from him, actually, in a decidedly guilty way.   
  
"Bones," murmurs Jim, voice rough from sleep.   
  
McCoy frowns, then belatedly startles fully awake, jerking away from the blazing warmth of Jim's skin. He blinks to clear the sleep from his eyes, frowning in the semi-darkness. Jim is kneeling on the edge of the mattress, half lit by moonlight, his face shadowed.   
  
"Sorry," says Jim. "Your couch -- it's, like, literally, I tried everything, there isn't a single position that doesn't hurt at least part of me. I was just gonna chill and suffer through it, but then --"  
  
"Christ, Jim," growls McCoy, scrubbing his hands over his face. He knows Jim's eyes are on him, sliding down his body, and he tenses. "I don't know where you get off, kid."  
  
"It's my sparkling personality," replies Jim. "I promise I'll stay on my side."  
  
"You don't  _have_  a side," mutters McCoy. "The  _entire bed_  is my side. Are you capable of lying still? And keeping your limbs to yourself?"  
  
"Trust me," says Jim, and his teeth flash white and friendly and wholesome in the dark.   
  
"Just lie down and shut up, then," McCoy sighs. "And stay on top of the covers." It's childishly petty, but Jim's got his pillow and blanket in hand anyway, like he already knew what McCoy's stipulations would be. McCoy turns his back pointedly on Jim, curling around his pillow and closing his eyes. Jim takes longer to settle, McCoy half-wondering if he's turning circles on the spot like a dog, but eventually he stops moving.   
  
McCoy can still feel the warmth of Jim’s body behind him even from two feet away. 

oOo

 

 

That’s how McCoy wakes up to Jim Kirk spooning him, one leg slung over his hip and the other jammed between McCoy's thighs. There's an arm over his waist, and the soft gusting of breath against the back of his neck means Jim has cuddled right up to him, not leaving a fraction of space between them. His nose is cold on McCoy's skin.   
  
Because he can't concentrate on the monumental awkwardness of this position, McCoy instead focuses on how, at least, he hasn't got a boner this morning. He's in the middle of congratulating himself for this when he realizes that Jim  _does_ , and his erection is actually poking hotly at the crack of McCoy's ass through his boxers.   
  
 _Shit_.   
  
Extricating himself from Jim's tentacle grasp is probably the most mortifying thing McCoy has done lately, because Jim is deeply asleep and reluctant to let him slip away; he snuffles and murmurs and clings, and McCoy actually kind of wants to die a little bit. He manages it only through the virtue of Jim turning over, and, once free, he's out of the bedroom and locking the door of the bathroom behind him in just two magnificent, deer-like leaps.   
  
He really should've known the covers would get pushed aside, and that Jim would be the kind of person that needs something to hold onto in bed. He should've made him go back to the couch, hell, he should've refused to let him stay!   
  
There are a lot of things he  _should've_  done and he hasn’t accomplished any of them, but at least Jim didn’t wake up to find his dick hard against his partner's ass.   
  
McCoy thinks even Jim would've been embarrassed by that.   


oOo

  
  
They drive into work together.   
  
There's really nothing for it; it's not like McCoy is going to force Jim to drive in a separate car, especially when he has no idea how the little Honda Jim drives even stays together. It seems to be held together entirely by duct tape and the sheer might of Jim's hopeful smile. They shower, and dress, and eat breakfast together, and then walk out to the car without ever communicating, the ease with which they do it confusing McCoy too much to think deeply about. So when he gets in the car and Jim pointlessly claims shotgun, he doesn't say anything because what  _could_  he say? Take your own damn car?  
  
It's when they get to work that it becomes embarrassing.   
  
McCoy arrives at the exact same time he always does, and usually he doesn't see anyone else in the parking lot. The day has adjusted its schedule just for him, though, and added impressive new depths of mortification for McCoy to sink to. As McCoy and Jim are getting out of the car, he spots Pike three spaces down, slamming the door on his soccer mom minivan. He's wearing a Yankees cap and holding a tray of take-out coffee, which handily explains why he's late today but doesn’t at all make McCoy feel better.  
  
Their eyes meet, briefly, and McCoy's brain starts blaring warnings that sound an awful lot like  ** _RED ALERT RED ALERT RED ALERT_**  in the echoing recesses of his tortured skull, and he's going into evasive maneuvers before he has time to truly understand what the fuck he's even  _doing_.   
  
Which really just means he ducks down and hurls himself to the pavement with absolutely no regard for his joints or limbs or skin.   
  
It's not one of his proudest moments.   


oOo

  
  
Jim wonders if overhearing private conversations between McCoy and Pike is something he's drawn to, now, because it happens to him for the second time after lunch.   
  
Maybe it's his superpower? It’s a lame one, though, which is disappointing, even if he briefly considers getting a shirt that says 'The Eavesdropper' on it. Either way, the only reason he catches it is because he's fetching coffee for them, even though  _personal fucking assistant_  sure as hell isn't in his job description, so it's really their own fault that they've even started to have an important conversation not meant for his ears when he's only meant to be gone for a few minutes.   
  
He stops outside the door, tray in hand, as McCoy is saying, "No. No, absolutely not, you are not recruiting him for that kind of fuckery."  
  
"You know as well I do, that's exactly why he was hired, Leonard," says Pike, using his dad voice. Good-natured, well-meaning lectures are Pike's default language setting. "With the proper training and experience, he'll be a valuable asset."  
  
" _Christopher_ ," says McCoy warningly.  
  
"Jesus Christ, Leo, you don't get to use that tone on me!" laughs Pike, utterly patronizing. "Not when I'm a decade older and a hell of a lot more distinguished than you."  
  
"I don't want to be his handler. I don't want be involved!" growls McCoy. He sounds genuinely angry, which Jim's gotten good at separating from his usual tone of barely-restrained irritation. "I don't want to see any more bright young kids get snuffed out like fucking candles. He'll be a good agent. Just let him stick with that."  
  
"What if he  _wants_  to be in covert intelligence?" demands Pike. "You can't just  _not ask_ , McCoy. It's a career opportunity most agents leap at! You certainly did."  
  
"And luckily, doctors caught my lack of rational thought early, and I only went five years doing the world's most dangerous, stupid, thankless job before I quit and regained higher brain function."  
  
"I dunno, I'd say you might want to go get another MRI to check that for sure."  
  
The resulting silence is thick and sullen, and Jim takes a deep breath and makes a show of coming back inside the office accompanied by the appropriate noise and ruckus that normally follows him around. "Coffee, black, for Bones," he says, handing the man his cup, "and a motherfucking hot chocolate with extra whipped cream and sprinkles for the man with the plan, AD Pike, who will probably be suffering arterial collapse any day now."  
  
He grins, and flops down in his vacated seat. McCoy and Pike grunt acknowledgment, but they're still glaring at each other across the table like a couple of six-year-olds, and Jim rolls his eyes, unused to being the most mature person in the room. "Right, so I'll just pretend I'm psychic -- why don't you want me to be a spy, Bones?"   
  
McCoy doesn't reply right away, clearly too focused on not breaking his staring contest with Pike, but after a moment his ears catch his brain up to the present and he snaps his gaze to Jim, surprised. "Dammit! You were listening?"  
  
"The door was  _wide open_ ," protests Jim, gesturing at it. "I was gone for  _five minutes_! You guys are ridiculous; did you go to the Mr. Gadget school of espionage, or what? Do you send out messages that self-destruct after you read them?"  
  
"Yeah, make sure you check your mail later," snaps McCoy, getting to his feet and kicking his chair away vindictively. He snatches up his coffee and stomps out of the office. "Call me when you regain your sanity!"  
  
Jim isn't quite clear on which of them he's talking to.   
  
He turns to Pike, eyebrow raised, and says, "I'm getting déjà vu, man. Bones has really got an ass-load of baggage, huh?"  
  
"Yeah," agrees Pike. "The job kind of destroyed his marriage." He pauses, looking somewhere off in the middle distance, and absently licks sprinkles off his finger.  
  
"Right. I'm gonna leave you to that, then," Jim says uncomfortably.   
  
He has no idea where McCoy might've gone, but now seems like the best time to hunt him out.  


oOo

  
  
It’s disappointingly easy.  
  
"Hey, found you!" calls Jim triumphantly, fifteen minutes later, waving at McCoy across the roof as he jogs towards him. "What do I win?"  
  
"A life-time supply of my boot up your ass," mutters McCoy from where he's sitting cross-legged on the edge of the building, his hands cupped around his coffee as he stares out at the city. He's got a pretty spectacular stoop going on.   
  
"Your posture is terrible," Jim says politely, settling down next to McCoy and dangling his legs. "You might want to do something about that."  
  
"How did you find me?"  
  
"Well, it wasn't really much of a search, I guess," admits Jim sheepishly. "I didn't think you'd stay in the building when you were in such a people-hatin' mood, and you weren't in your car."  
  
McCoy grunts and sips at his coffee, his shoulders hunched up around his ears.   
  
"So," says Jim, clearing his throat. "You want to tell me about when your last partner bit it so we can get past this incredibly obese elephant in the room? Because I'd love to be able to move around without tripping over massive lumps of its  _shit_. Did I just kill that metaphor? I think I did."  
  
"No, you're a remarkably poetic son-of-a-bitch," snaps McCoy, mostly to cover his surprise. "There's not much to tell. I got a kid killed and I won't be letting that happen again. I don't recommend intelligence as a fun and exciting new career choice because it tends to kill most agents before they even get a chance to use their shiny new dental benefits."  
  
"I'll have to book that root canal soon, then," muses Jim, shooting a calculating look at McCoy.   
  
And McCoy isn't sure what sort of reaction he's looking for, so he just doesn't react at all, staring holes in Jim until the kid looks away.   
  
"Any way to talk you out of this?" McCoy eventually asks quietly.   
  
"No," says Jim.   
  
"Then I'll have to stick around and make sure you don't get yourself killed."   


oOo

  
  
Jim doesn't really end up leaving.   
  
For all McCoy's threats, he doesn't even mention Jim finding a new place to live after the first night, and Jim just assumes that until he does, McCoy is okay with having Jim as a new roommate that, five out of seven nights a week, ends up crawling into bed with him.   
  
The weird part is that they don’t have sex, which is what McCoy assumes might happen after the fourth morning he wakes up tangled in Jim. This time, they're not spooning, but McCoy is on his back and Jim has thrown an arm and a leg over him, head on McCoy's shoulder, tucked up under his jaw. He's draped over McCoy like he's trying to keep him warm, murmuring against his bare skin but otherwise dead to the world.   
  
McCoy has stopped dwelling on how weird this is.   
  
Aside from the awkwardness of morning wood, Jim hasn't tried anything remotely sexual. He's starting to wonder if they  _are_  actually going to sleep together and get this over with, or if Jim is going to keep cuddling up to him like snuggling with your partner is the most normal, natural thing in the world.   
  
Thing is, it sort of is.   
  
McCoy is sleeping better, now that he has another body to attach himself to; he'd always been a clingy sleeper with Jocelyn and it's nice to be able to enjoy that again. Jim seems happy to sleep in any position, no matter how awkward.   
  
McCoy had found him sitting on the pavement leaning up against a car door, once, dead asleep. He'd ducked there for cover during a routine tail, and when McCoy had slipped away to check things out from the other side, he'd drifted off sitting upright. He's the annoying sort of person that never stays up half the night thinking about how wrong and weird and stupid it is to share a bed with the man you've only been working with for five months.   
  
McCoy likes Jim living with him, though, even if he'd rather swallow bull testicles than say it aloud, and as long as neither of them mention Jim's lack of an apartment hunt, then it won't come up. Jim always does the dishes and he's surprisingly neat and organized. He also orders takeout when McCoy falls asleep on the couch and forgets to make dinner.  
  
It just goes on, neither of them saying a word about it. They leave early in the morning together, and return late at night, exhausted and bruised and ready to fall into bed. Sometimes they don't get home at all.   
  
After Jim accepts Pike's promotion, McCoy holds on to him a little tighter.   


oOo

  
  
It turns out, annoyingly enough, that McCoy didn't really have to worry about Jim at all, but he should've made more consideration for himself.   
  
Jim is frustratingly good at what he does. McCoy doesn't try to delude himself into thinking this was a mistake, because it so clearly isn't; Jim's exactly what Pike's been looking for in an agent since McCoy stepped down. He's Jim's handler, when those jobs pop up, though they still mostly work together as partners on standard procedure cases. As far as McCoy can tell, no one ever sees Jim and comes out of it alive. He's the best kept secret the FBI's ever had, and it comforts him a little, knowing Jim's completely unknown to anyone who might want to hurt him. He's McCoy's responsibility. The kid has to stay alive and safe, or McCoy doesn't really have anything at all worth bothering with in this job.   
  
When McCoy knows with clinical certainty that he'll bleed out from his injury or be discovered and subsequently executed, it's the only thing he can focus on that brings him any relief. This is the right way; he'll die, but Jim will live. He can finally put all the pain and guilt to rest, and die knowing he didn't let anyone down.   
  
McCoy blinks, coming back to himself in time to hear the muffled footsteps passing by the door. He holds his breath, but they don't pause near him, and he exhales, silently, when they disappear again. His arms have gone numb, and he scrabbles on the wooden floor, teeth gritted in pain, trying to sit up a little to ease the pressure on his bound hands.   
  
The suit Pike lent him is covered in blood. He doesn't think it's salvageable, but he's sure Chris will understand. Chris will probably speak at his funeral. Will Jocelyn come? With Joanna? God, Joanna. McCoy squirms, biting back a gasp of pain and grinding down hard on the tidal wash of flotsam threatening to engulf his terrified brain. Blood keeps bubbling to his lips, staining them bright cherry red.   
  
He never wanted to hurt Joanna. He hopes they'll tell her that her daddy died a hero, or something equally vague and mostly untrue. He couldn't stand it, even in death, if his baby girl grew up ashamed of her absentee father's memory.   
  
Shit, he's cold.   
  
The gunshot wound is in his abdomen.  
  
Bleeding out will take a while, a long, protracted death, the pain budding and blooming until he can't help crying with it, sobbing and writhing and pleading for an end. He can't decide if being discovered will be better or worse. There's a chance they'll try interrogating him if they find him again, but at this stage, he's banking on a quick shot to the head instead.   
  
A fresh wave of sharp, needling pain drags over his nerves like an electric charge, and McCoy chews so hard on his lower lip in an effort not to groan aloud that he shreds it open, blood trickling hotly down his chin in thick ropes.   
  
His vision is blurring around the edges, and it makes the small, dusty closet that encompasses his entire world right now look like an old photograph in sepia, faded around the edges; the light in here is too dim for him to focus. There's nothing to see, anyway, beyond his own broken body. McCoy has curled with his knees up, because it hurts a little less that way, and there's a pool of blood beneath him, slick and cold and sticky. He's twisted his wrists so much that they're raw and prickling, elbows aching.  
  
If he really focuses, and ignores all the desperate signals his body is screaming at him, McCoy can hear the guests down in the ballroom. A low murmur of voices, with the occasional burst of bright laughter, all overlaid over faint classical music. Jim is down there, somewhere, with no idea that McCoy is up here dying. They're supposed to check in, soon, though, and Jim will know that something has happened.   
  
The fear that overwhelms him is sudden and blinding, McCoy's chest constricting, his heart thumping wildly as he allows himself a whimper. Fuck. Fuck, he didn't think of that, once Jim gets a dead line, he'll start looking for McCoy.  _Fuck_.  
  
The earpiece is lying, useless, by McCoy's shoe. He'd crushed it; ground it to powder to eliminate any and all chance of anyone finding Jim. He'd already been shot, and getting in here, in this tiny, suffocating closet, had been hard enough. With the whole place quietly on alert, they'll be looking for the second party. They'll know McCoy is not alone. And as long as Jim gets out of here soon, he'll be fine.   
  
He tries to remember the last time they checked in, but his mind is a hazy mess of fractured, broken glass images, and while he hopes Jim will do what he's supposed to and abort upon finding McCoy isn’t responding, he knows that Jim probably won't. Jim can't leave him. It's not in his programming. He's an old-fashioned, 'no man left behind' kind of guy,  _fuck him_.   
  
He drifts off thinking of how he'd awoken this morning, Jim curled into his side, sleep-warm and soft, and then more footsteps wake him from a cold, restless, half-conscious sleep.   
  
For a moment, he can't pin anything down, can't understand what feels so wrong, but eventually it comes to him -- the voices are gone, the music silent. The light tumbling in through the small, high window is different, the moonlight sprawling over his slumped body showing it's now gone midnight, at least an hour later than the last time he was awake. Hope rises again, briefly; Jim probably listened to orders, probably long gone, safe with Pike.  
  
It's partly why he thinks he's hallucinating when the door finally opens, and someone steps into the room. McCoy stiffens, curling tighter into himself, his vision half-fucked by tears and sweat, but when the figure steps forward and the light hits him, it's -- fuck, it's Jim.   
  
"No," moans McCoy, with a wet, ragged intake of breath. His heart is sinking, drowning in the darkness licking at him from all around.   
  
"No, Jim, no, you were supposed to leave." He thought he knew what a broken heart felt like, after his divorce, but it's something else entirely now, hearing himself sob like that, crushed. "No, you  _idiot_."  
  
"Bones," rasps Jim, because the stupid kid isn't actually physically capable of producing a sound remotely like a whisper, it's just not coded into his DNA or something, and when he tries to lower his voice all that happens is a certain roughness takes over, though no actual lowering of volume occurs. "Shit, Bones, I can't see you -- tell me what's wrong."  
  
He's shut the door behind him, at least, and he looks harried but unharmed as he ducks down by McCoy, out of the moonlight, though his eyes are still visible, gleaming in the half-shadows.   
  
"Jim," whispers McCoy, his head swimming thickly. He can't think, dammit. "Jim, careful. Just -- don't touch me."  
  
"What? Bones, what are you talking about, I'm here to get your geriatric ass out --" And McCoy knows exactly what stops Jim short, because he's kneeling next to him, now, which means those expensive, well-tailored tuxedo trousers just absorbed a healthy puddle of McCoy's rapidly diminishing supply of blood. "Oh fuck," hisses Jim. His hands are suddenly on McCoy's legs, sliding up to his knees, and McCoy lets out a warning growl.   
  
"I said don't touch me, Jim, please," begs McCoy. "Just get the fuck out of here."  
  
"Are you joking? I'm getting you out, too, Bones. I've been looking for you since you didn't check in, fuck, this place is huge."  
  
"Did anyone see you?" snaps McCoy.   
  
"No, no, chill," mutters Jim. "Shot in the stomach?"  
  
"No, Jim, this blood here, it's not mine, see," starts McCoy, bristling, but Jim shushes him, hands seeking out McCoy's shoulders reassuringly.   
  
"I need to untie your hands," says Jim, steadily. "Which means I have to move you."  
  
McCoy nods tightly. And as much as he braces himself, he's still not quite prepared for how much it hurts. The noises he's producing are strangled and pitiful, and through it all, Jim shushes him, murmuring soothing, nonsensical things, comforting him with gentle, confident hands that rub the feeling back into his wrists after Jim cuts away the wire. McCoy sits crouched in the cradle of Jim's arms, his legs folded tight to his chest, head on his knees, leaning heavily in the familiar warmth of Jim's body.   
  
"You were supposed to go," says McCoy, helplessly. Because he's so happy to see Jim that he could probably actually cry, but this is not what he wanted. He's been worrying for months that he's going to get Jim killed, and now here's the opportunity, lining up to fuck them sideways. It's not supposed to be like this, he wants to shake Chris by the shoulders, scream at him for letting Jim do this, Jim who's so blazing bright and brilliant that McCoy can't even look straight at him sometimes. "Why didn't you go, Jim? I had it all worked out."  
  
"Bones, seriously, stop talking," Jim says urgently. He's doing something with the jacket of his suit, tearing huge strips out of the material. "I can't leave you. You'd never leave  _me_ , I don't know how you can think I could ever leave  _you_."  
  
"I wasn't supposed to like you," growls McCoy, giving into anger because he can't indulge any of the other emotions flooding through him. He's angry and cold and shaking, God, it hurts so much. There's nothing here to inhibit him, no reason to bottle it all back anymore. "Dammit, kid, I wanted to pretend to hate you! I didn't want to like you, because I didn't want to have to see you die, and now you've got to see  _me_  die, and it ain't fair to you. I didn't want this, Jim. I didn't want to love you. I didn't want to  _care_."  
  
"It's okay," says Jim, voice soft by McCoy's ear. "I'm sorry, Bones, this is going to hurt. Bite down."  
  
Jim is shoving a wad of fabric between his teeth, so McCoy bites down obediently, too dazed to do anything else, as he lets the worst pain he's ever felt snap through him viciously like a broken cable, lashing at his nerves. The instinct not to scream, to be a fucking man dammit and  _take this_ , dries right up and he can't help the animal sounds that emerge, emptying his pain into the cloth muffled between his teeth and tongue, Jim still murmuring comforts to him as he makes Bones lie back so can wrap the rest of his jacket around him, tying strips around his midsection. It's agonizing, his skin burning at every brush of Jim's body against him, over-sensitized and sharp.   
  
"C'mon, up you go," murmurs Jim, slinging McCoy's arm over his shoulder and tucking an arm around his waist as he hauls him up. "I'm not doing this without you, Bones."  
  
McCoy grunts, his vision greying out he slumps bonelessly against Jim. When his jaw loosens, he spits out the wad of fabric and determinedly tries to regain mobility of his legs.   
  
"We're going to walk right out of here," says Jim, sliding his gun out of its holster and clicking off the safety. "Show me what a stubborn, cranky-ass son of a bitch you are. I mean, Jesus Christ, we haven't even fucked yet, I was working up to it, and I will not let you weasel out of this because some stupid gunshot wound gave you the chance to die like a hero or whatever you think this is. I'm an awesome lay, Bones. You won't even be able to keep up!"   
  
"Jim," snaps McCoy, shutting his eyes unsuccessfully against the pain and discomfort, "Do me a favour and shut your trap. It was nice here, in this closet, before you bounded in like a goddamn puppy. It was peaceful."  
  
" _Your mom_  is peaceful," declares Jim, undeterred by how bizarre he sounds. "You can't escape me now, man, I've got your  _number_. You're stuck with me."  
  
"Yeah, right until we both die horribly as soon as we step into the corridor," mutters McCoy pessimistically.   


oOo

  
  
They don't die horribly.   
  
It has something to do with Pike, McCoy is sure, because Jim couldn't possibly pull off an extraction like this all by himself, but he spends half of the journey focused intensively on just making his feet work, so he misses anything that occurs above ground-level.   
  
At one point, Jim settles him on a bench in a darkened hallway, pushing his gun into McCoy's blood-slick hands and then pressing a finger to his lips, like McCoy is a child and doesn't know to keep quiet. He summons just enough energy to roll his eyes, Jim grinning at him as he slips down the hallway to the brightened exit where a man is standing. He's not visibly armed, or if he is, McCoy can't see far enough, though he does witness Jim applying his fist to the man's face with what can only be defined as  _judicious force_. He can hear the crack of bone all the way down the hallway.  
  
McCoy passes out, eventually. He’s kind of glad he doesn't have to be awake for the humiliation of  _being carried to safety_  by Jim.   


oOo

  
  
"I love you too," is the first thing he hears when he wakes up. For one long, truly horrifying moment, he thinks the blurry image resolving itself by his bedside is Pike, but when he blinks, blue eyes and blond hair appear, and McCoy is -- well, he's only marginally relieved. He knows Pike has a brotherly sort of love for him, because McCoy returns it unconditionally and has even gone so far as to express his sentiments in a sealed letter that will show up in Pike's mailbox in the event of his death, but it's not something he ever wants them to talk about. He'd rather chew off his own fingers.  
  
Jim, on the other hand -- Jim is someone he never wanted to tell, but there are vague memories developing like black and white film involving a lot of blood and a broom closet. Dammit.   
  
"I know you thought you were dying, and stuff," continues Jim. He's wearing the same goofy smile he always does, but it's looking a little frayed around the edges. "But you're not the only one who hates to talk about yourself, Bones. Everyone has shit they don't want to say. Everyone has hang-ups and baggage."  
  
McCoy regards him dizzily, slightly too high on morphine to order his thoughts. He blurts out the first thing that comes to mind: "I've seen your record, Jim." Jim winces in sympathy at his shredded voice, and he picks up a cup of water from the stand beside him and holds the straw to McCoy's lips gently.  
  
"Careful, you've got stitches in your lower lip," murmurs Jim. "What about my record?"  
  
"Juvie. Theft. Vandalism," replies McCoy, when he can. "Kicked out of school a few times. Hang-ups. Baggage. I know things weren't stellar for you. I don't like to pry. And I was trying not to get involved."  
  
"That? That's bullshit," snorts Jim. "That's not what I meant.  _Emotional_  baggage. The stuff that keeps you from getting close to people so that they can't leave you. I tried, too. All that shit you were saying, about not wanting to care -- I tried that, too. Okay, for, like, two days, but still. I tried. The point is I had defenses too, and you didn't so much as demolish them, you just didn't even notice they were  _there_. You were in with me, Bones, from the second day I met you, and I don't know how I let that happen. There were no lines. No boundaries. You didn't sneak in, you  _appeared_ , like some freakish ninja pirate. I didn't even stop to question it. I’d tell you stuff, if you asked."  
  
McCoy mulls this over, and gestures at the water. Jim obliges, holding the cup steady and placing the straw between his lips.   
  
"Yeah," he finally says, after he's worked a few cold mouthfuls down. "Yeah, I know. I will ask. Wasn’t ready, before."  
  
Jim smiles, then, properly. "And it's not like you could resist my awesome charm, right?"  
  
"You remember that they  _made_  me be your partner, right?" drawls McCoy, enjoying the way Jim's features crumple immediately into a sulky pout. His face is malleably expressive, the sort of face that, if there was a contest for that sort of thing, would win prizes at a fair.   
  
"Man, Bones, you're barely out of surgery and your body has already managed to replace most of its supply of vitriol and general puppy-kicking antipathy. I'm totally impressed," chirps Jim.   
  
"It comes before I regenerate plasma," grunts McCoy, "Especially if I have to wake up to your ugly mug. Am I allowed to go to the bathroom alone yet?"  
  
"What? You just woke up, Bones," laughs Jim, sounding just a little too gleeful. "You're not even allowed to sit up all the way, yet. Didn't you notice the super-attractive 80-year-old man catheter?"  
  
"No," says McCoy dryly, refusing to look down. "No, I hadn't, thanks for that."  
  
Jim leans in, elbows on his knees, and suddenly McCoy realizes that he's still wearing his tuxedo, pant-legs dry with McCoy's blood. Jim looks like he's at least washed his face and hands, but there's a smudge of something flaky and rust-coloured on his chin, and there are bags under his eyes.   
  
"Hey, Bones, I kind of knew you weren't going to die, because obviously I was always going to swoop in at the last second and save your sorry ass like a total motherfucking  _boss_ , but I believe I mentioned something about wanting to bed you. Remember?"  
  
McCoy snorts, the movement pulling at the stitches in his belly. The local anesthetic hasn't worn off yet, so it doesn't hurt, but it is one of the strangest sensations he's endured recently. "You want to 'bed me', Jim? And after that, shall we attend the Policeman's Ball and dance endlessly under the stars?"  
  
Jim blows out an irritated breath and shifts closer into McCoy's personal space, leaning an elbow on the starch white hospital pillow as he curves his arm around McCoy's head. "We're not courting, Bones." This close, he can see the different shades of blue in Jim's eyes, flecks of sky and varying depths of water. Jim's mouth twitches into a smirk as he brushes a calloused thumb over the bruises under McCoy's eyes, trails his fingers through limp, dull brown hair.   
  
McCoy blinks at him. "Then what, Jim?"  
  
"What, nothing," Jim says cheerfully. "We already sleep together, right? We already eat and work and spend all our spare time together. We've done the courting. I have totally courted you, with beer and pizza and witty, urbane banter!"  
  
"Jim," says McCoy warningly, "When you start using words like 'urbane', you actually need to back the fuck up a minute and explain the torrent of bullshit coming out of your mouth."  
  
And Jim leans in, then, and presses a kiss to McCoy's forehead, stroking a hand over the same spot as if to ward away the worried wrinkles. McCoy is floored by the gesture. He'd been expecting eager, sloppy, invasive kisses, which, to be fair, follow directly after, leaving McCoy completely stunned but happily so. Jim is enthusiastic yet surprisingly shy with his movements, lips moving against McCoy's curiously for a protracted period of exploration that eventually results in parting McCoy's lips with his tongue and sliding in, warm and certain.  
  
"Kirk, stop molesting the invalid," says a voice, which is coming from a Chris Pike-shaped figure standing in the doorway.   
  
Jim makes a startled, indignant noise against McCoy's mouth and snaps backwards into his seat to shoot an unimpressed glare at their superior officer. "Fuck, way to cock-block me, Christopher."  
  
"You know, I'm really starting to wonder if you two understand the concept of rank," murmurs Pike, an indulgent half-smile on his face that speaks volumes about just how much he's been wondering at all. "Also, I really didn't need to know that, or see that, or end up with resulting  _images in my head_ , and to that end, neither did anyone else in this hospital, so you cock-blocked  _yourself_. Here, Jim, go take a shower and put these on," he adds, passing Jim a neatly-folded pile of clean clothes. "That's an order, by the way. I need to talk to Leonard."  
  
Jim takes the clothes and makes a face, reluctantly getting to his feet. "That better not be code for 'I need to talk to Leonard  _about you_ ', Pike. I'm watching you." He makes the universally paranoid accompanying gesture, jabbing his finger at Pike as he slips out with the clothes.   
  
McCoy rouses himself from the kiss-induced daze, every single thought in his head currently revolving around Jim. "He has an excellent ass," mumbles McCoy, watching said ass and the person attached go past the room's wall-sized window.   
  
Pike raises an eyebrow and moves to the IV at McCoy's bedside, picking up the morphine dial. "Oh- _ho_ , they've got you on the good stuff, huh?"  
  
"I can't feel my skin," drawls McCoy. "I'm skinless. I'm not even entirely positive I'm awake, let alone  _alive_ , due to several things: one, Jim just kissed me. Two, I feel impossibly good despite having been shot in the friggin' gut. Three, Jim fucking  _kissed me_. Kids today."  
  
"You've been driving in together for months, Leo," says Pike in amusement, sinking down into Jim's vacated chair with the same enviably casual style and grace with which he does everything. "I thought you guys started fucking ages ago."  
  
"Ever the romantic soul, Chris. No," says McCoy firmly. "We started  _sleeping together_  ages ago. Not fucking."  
  
"I don't even know what to say to that, so I decline to respond," says Pike dryly, rolling his eyes.   
  
"What did you want to talk about?" McCoy prompts eventually, after he spends a long silence trying to remember why Jim left and why Pike is here now, in his place. He likes Pike, but Jim might kiss him again, if he comes back, and that's infinitely more pleasant. Christ, he feels fuzzy. Faded around the edges and light and stupid and totally fucking  _buzzing_.  
  
"Nothing really, I just wanted to make sure you were okay," says Pike quietly. "Stop getting shot, Leo, I go a little greyer every time. Are you trying to give a poor old man a heart attack?"  
  
"Sorry," says McCoy quietly. “I forgot how weak your constitution is.”  
  
He strains his brain to think, for a moment, and comes up with a young face similar to Jim's, but at the same time, nothing at all alike. It hurts to think of, but saying what next comes out of his mouth eases it, a little. "Jim isn't Myers, is he, Chris?" he asks, cursing the vulnerability in his voice.  
  
Pike lays a hand over his shoulder, the one with the scar, and says softly, "No, Leo, he isn't. You know that. You know the only thing making you compare them was fear. You couldn't protect Myers, but you don't need to worry so much about Jim. I was relying on that when I paired you two, that you'd watch each other's backs. Don’t hold him at arm’s length."  
  
McCoy sighs, relaxing. "You're a manipulative old bastard."  
  
Pike quirks a grin, and squeezes his shoulder gently before letting go and standing up. He looks down at McCoy and says, very quietly, "It was never your fault, Leonard."  
  
"Yeah," whispers McCoy, and for once, he believes his own words. "I know."  


oOo

  
  
McCoy gets to go home after two weeks.   
  
It's more like he bullies his attending physician and all the nurses until they can't actually stand the sight of him anymore, but McCoy isn't picky about language. He's not planning on doing jumping jacks or running any time soon, but he can't lie in this scratchy, sterile bed for another minute.   
  
Jim had been visiting, multiple times a day and always with something illicit for him to enjoy, like chocolate or doughnuts or some necking under the sheets, which improved matters a lot, but it would still be a lot nicer to just be home where Jim is all the time.   
  
Jim helps him change, pulling the blinds shut on the picture-window and then holding out each article of clothing and refraining from saying a word as McCoy painstakingly wriggles into it. Eventually, he’s fully clothed and panting a bit, but Jim is there to throw an arm around his shoulders and guide him out to the parking lot, where -- yeah, the rust-bucket Honda is waiting, a vehicle that will probably keep running until the suspension falls out and the brakes fail, totally independent of whether or not there's any actual gas in it.   
  
There's no plant in the passenger seat. In fact, Jim appears to have cleaned the entire car out, if his proud smirk is anything to go by. He doesn't try to help McCoy in, knowing he'll bristle, just waits patiently as he folds his body in such a way that doesn't aggravate his abdomen and slides into the car.   
  
The seats are warm from the sun against his bare skin. Jim is babbling about something, but by now, unless he's prompting McCoy for conversation, his chatter just becomes comforting white noise. He guns the engine, ignores the jangling clatter that erupts, and cranks his window all the way down.   
  
"80 degrees and sunny, Bones!" he cries, sliding on a pair of enormous aviator sunglasses and flashing McCoy a grin. "This is the first nice day all fucking week! Oh, I give you permission to select the radio station, I suspect you'll murder me in my sleep if I make you listen to any more of that 'damn noise, Jim.'"  
  
McCoy's actually been getting used to Jim's music, but he's not about to admit  _that_ , is he, so he immediately turns to the local country-western station, which even McCoy admits is kind of crap, mostly to admire the twitch Jim's eyebrow develops almost instantaneously.   
  
"Now you know how I feel  _every day_ ," purrs McCoy, thoroughly enjoying the fact that Jim's apparent need to be extra nice to McCoy while he's healing up includes tolerating Garth Brooks.   
  
"I'm going to buy you a cowboy hat for your birthday," Jim declares, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel in a spastic, frenzied rhythm completely contrary to the slow, twangy song coming out of the speakers. "And some of those ass-less leather chaps."  
  
"You are  _too stupid to live_ ," mutters McCoy.  
  
"I dunno, I think that's probably the best idea I've had in about an hour, ever since that epic bacon sandwich I made for lunch," replies Jim easily.   
  
McCoy cocks his head, watching Jim out of the corner of his eye, his hair like wheat in the sun, arms lean and taut under the sleeves of his white t-shirt. "Did you use bacon as the bread? Bacon wrapped around bacon?"  
  
Jim turns to him briefly, and, bless his heart, he actually looks surprised. "How did you know?"  


oOo

  
  
McCoy goes to sleep pretty much immediately, once they get home. Jim helps him get undressed and then puts him to bed, and, because he knows McCoy didn't notice the mess now but will the next time he wakes up, he spends the rest of the afternoon cleaning the apartment.   
  
He's never really poked around much in McCoy's stuff; he's rabidly private about most things pertaining to his personal life, and Jim has no desire to provoke the ire of a man that's borderline miserable and consistently agitated on a good day.   
  
Sometimes he trips over things, though, like photographs and handwritten letters that he can't help but look at and read. They're usually from Joanna, someone Jim is desperate to ask about, because seriously, Bones with a kid? Playing house and riding bikes and all that shit? It doesn't actually compute. He figures McCoy will tell him eventually, and he can't ask any more than that, especially when he finds something like he does today which kind of breaks his heart and stomps on it a little more and then grinds its heel in.   
  
He's standing in the living room on a step stool, a feather duster balanced on his shoulder and a bandana tied around his head, clutching a worn photo that somehow ended up sitting in the bowl of a light fixture. After he'd blown off the thick layer of dust and dead flies, Jim had been left staring at a young, happy, unlined Bones, smiling into the camera like there was a sun burning somewhere inside him, hot and bright. He's holding a baby aged maybe just a few months, with huge eyes exactly like McCoy's and a thatch of thick dark hair, and he’s holding the little girl out proudly, his face the very picture of unrestrained delight.   
  
Jim stares, amazed, for nearly five minutes before he finally climbs down. He cleans all the dust off, carefully, and then sets the photo in the center of the kitchen table, propped up on the fruit bowl.   
  
He goes back to cleaning, absently, his mind on how he's never seen McCoy smile like that, which is just really fucking depressing, to be completely honest.   
  
He wonders if people like Pike, who knew him when he was happy and know him now when he's miserable, feel the same earth-shaking sadness Jim is feeling, the honest desperation to just give him something that won't make him scowl.   
  
Jim sighs, holding back a sneeze as he disturbs a thick coating of dust on the TV.   
  
Eventually, he gets tired of his own thoughts. He showers away the fine film of dust stuck to his skin and crawls into bed with McCoy, damp and dressed in shorts and a t-shirt more holes than fabric.  
  
McCoy is sleeping on his back, visibly uncomfortable as he sprawls with an arm up behind his head and the other draped protectively over his belly. He's breathing shallow and even, totally asleep, and he's pale and thin and fragile in the faded afternoon light. Jim props himself up on an elbow to peer down at him, tracing the fine blue lines of his veins, the clean curves of his collarbone and shoulders, finally resting on the tight, silvery bunch of scar tissue on the soft flesh of his body where his shoulder meets his torso.   
  
He had noticed it maybe a week after they had first started sleeping in the same bed. McCoy had worn a wife-beater instead of a t-shirt, and he had been sleeping exactly as he was now, on his back, chest exposed.   
  
Jim hadn’t touched it, though. Now McCoy will have a matching cluster of scar tissue on his abdomen, as well.   
  
He stirs, restlessly, under Jim’s softly questing fingers, and his eyes flutter open, dazedly blinking at the ceiling.   
  
“Jim,” he croaks. It’s not even a question, because McCoy knows exactly where Jim is without seeing him. He’s too used to waking up to his warmth in the bed to think otherwise.   
  
“Hey,” says Jim, waiting for McCoy’s eyes to focus and drift to his face. They’re more green than brown, right now, like smudged moss on a tree. He brushes McCoy’s hair out of his face with a careless hand and leans in, tentatively, to kiss him. It seems different, now that they’re out of the hospital, more substantial, and he’s not sure if McCoy will tolerate it.   
  
“Dammit,” mutters McCoy, contrary to how he surges up to meet Jim, sealing their mouths together in a crush of lips and teeth and warm breath. “You woke me up for kisses? You’re incorrigible, and I’m tired.” He props himself up on his elbows for another kiss, though, and Jim gives him a disbelieving look.  
  
“Are you cantankerous just because you’ve gotten used to the lifestyle and don’t feel like finding a new personality this late in life?”  
  
McCoy scowls, on cue, and very carefully slides his body up to rest on the pillows piled up against the headboard. “Is that your vocabulary word of the day?” he retorts.   
  
“Don’t worry, sicky, I’ll be gentle.” Jim scoots up to join McCoy in the nest, curling around him in a protective fashion that McCoy would roll his eyes at if Jim hadn’t already attached his mouth to his and begun making lewd things happen with his tongue.   
  
The kisses are lazy, leisurely, stretching out between them during that late afternoon half-time that seems to yawn interminably into evening without ever giving the appearance of minutes ticking by at all. At some point, dark clouds have gathered, blotting out the perfect sun that Jim had reveled in and throwing a shadow over the bedroom. The rain is pattering down steadily, hypnotically soothing.   
  
“I’m having real concerns about whether I’m going to break you or something if I do anything other than kiss you,” Jim says, eventually. He’s kneeling up, now, hands perched on his knees as he cocks his head down at McCoy like a curious pet.   
  
McCoy trails a hand over the long, angular lines of Jim’s arm, and snorts. “Are you planning some crazy sex acrobatics, kid? Because I can think of plenty of things we can do that don’t involve stressing out my bullet-ridden hide.”  
  
“One,” says Jim, running a hand through his hair. He runs his tongue over his lower lip, already red and swollen, and McCoy’s eyes pause there for a long moment, considering. “One bullet. Hardly makes you ‘bullet-ridden.’”  
  
“Two, if you count the old one,” mumbles McCoy, still watching Jim’s mouth.   
  
“I don’t want to have to explain to your sweet, elderly doctor that you pulled stitches during ridiculously hot sex with a nubile partner a few years your junior,” complains Jim. “It’s a big ego bruise.”  
  
“You need those, sometimes,” declares McCoy firmly. “I approve of them. I didn’t think I’d be the one talking you into sex, Jim. Put up or shut up, I don’t have all day, and you’ll get even more of a thump on the ego if I fall asleep in the middle of whatever it is you decide you want to do with me.”  
  
That seems to sober Jim, a little, and he straightens almost imperceptibly, pride now on the line. “ _No one_  has ever fallen asleep before I’ve gotten through with them, Bones, and your stubborn ass will not be the first.”  
  
He doesn’t give McCoy the chance to protest, just gently slides McCoy’s boxers off his hips with a bit of creative shimmying and then throws a leg over him to straddle his knees. It’s his mouth engulfing McCoy’s cock, not his hand, which is what he was expecting, so there’s a moment of gasping and panting and writhing as his erection jumps to full attention in the hot, relentless vacuum of Jim’s mouth.   
  
“Jesus  _fuck_ , Jim, oh my God,” cries McCoy, and it’s been so long he’s not quite sure what’s good form. His fingers find their way into Jim’s hair anyway, manners be damned, and he  _tugs_ , desperate, as Jim wraps his fingers around the base of his cock, gripping him tight, and then flattens his tongue, swiping up the underside.   
  
Jim makes an encouraging noise, a throaty hum that rockets up McCoy’s spine like a telegraph, pooling heat along his nerves.   
  
His hair is soft under McCoy’s hand, short strands threading over the calloused pads of his fingers. McCoy tugs involuntarily, every time Jim’s teeth drag lightly over his shaft, a jerky demand for more, now, _faster_. Jim obliges, swallowing impressively until he’s got McCoy seated fully down his throat, nose bumping the taut muscle of his abdomen, fingers brushing over the curl of dark hair that Jim is still fascinated by.  
  
Jim lets him set the pace, as McCoy rocks his hips slowly, carefully, orgasm building tight and satisfying at the base of his spine. It’s painfully good, and he doesn’t make noise when he comes, just stills his hand in Jim’s hair and closes his eyes, lips parted, frozen still and forever with Jim around him, before he sinks back into the pillows.   
  
Jim is licking him clean when he manages to peel his eyes open again, the world reconstituting like a grainy satellite signal, delivering the image of ruddy-cheeked, glassy-eyed Jim leaning over him, lips bruised and slick red as he swipes his tongue over the slit of McCoy’s suddenly too-sensitive cock, making him jump.   
  
“Stop it,” he demands, slapping lightly at Jim’s head.  
  
Jim laughs, and palms himself absently through his shorts as he lies alongside McCoy. “What a demanding bitch you are, dude. I don’t know why I put up with your abusive ways.”  
  
“And stop fondling yourself through your pants, you idiot, shift up here,” says McCoy, ignoring Jim. He reaches out, but surprisingly Jim gets an unguarded look on his face which immediately turns defensive. He pulls back and sits up.  
  
“You don’t have to. I’m not looking for a pity fuck, or something.”  
  
McCoy levels his flattest, more incredulous expression back at Jim and says, very slowly, “And I’m not fucking around, kid. Get closer before I bust my stitches dragging you back over here, and let me do this for you, dammit. I’m not letting you do this alone.”  
  
His last sentence hangs there, heavy in the air, while Jim stares steadily back at him with dark, uncertain eyes, searching for something in his expression, his bearing, anything. Whatever Jim’s looking for seems to escape him, though, and Jim, finally, thankfully, smiles, his face clearing.   
  
“Sure,” he says, his body language loosening as he sprawls on his side and lifts his hips to wriggle his underwear down to his thighs. “Yeah, okay. Sorry.”  
  
“Don’t worry about it,” says McCoy dismissively. With a hand on Jim’s shoulder, he pushes him flat, climbing over his narrow hips to settle over him. Jim looks startled, reaching up to steady McCoy at the waist. “I’m not gonna snap in two, Jim.”  
  
“Just... take it easy, Bones,” cautions Jim solemnly. “Don’t pull a muscle, or something.”  
  
“Brat,” snorts McCoy. He wraps a warm hand around Jim, fisting him firmly, and smiles a slow, sinister grin. “I want to hear my name when you come, boy.”  
  
Jim’s gaze is wide open and heated. “Yeah,” he says hoarsely. “Come on, then.”  


oOo

  
  
Suddenly there’s even less of a reason for Jim to find his own place, especially when McCoy belatedly finds out he can cook.   
  
“What the hell is this?” he demands, when Jim comes into the bedroom the next morning with a tray that smells absolutely  _godly_.   
  
“Eggs, bacon, biscuits, gravy, and home fries,” announces Jim cheerfully. “I figured, after all the hospital food –-”  
  
“You figured right,” interrupts McCoy, holding his hands out for the food. “Gimme.”  
  
“Look at you, acting like you regressed,” says Jim, sliding into bed and setting the tray between them. “This is for me, too, and if you eat all the bacon it’s back to rice pudding and applesauce.”  
  
“Thanks, Jim,” McCoy murmurs.   
  
For a few minutes, they concentrate on the food. McCoy wonders if Jim has realized that this means he’ll be expected to produce a spread like this at least once a week, or if he thinks that impressing McCoy with this will be forgotten. He’s collapsing happily into a bacon-induced coma when Jim pipes up, mouth still full.   
  
“Are you going to be weird about this?”  
  
“What, breakfast?” asks McCoy, bewildered.   
  
“No,” says Jim, arching an eyebrow and then ruining the effect by shoving an entire biscuit into his mouth. Luckily he has the foresight to chew and swallow before attempting speech again. “The whole...partnership deal.”  
  
“Still impossibly unspecific, Jim,” says McCoy, frowning. “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”  
  
“You thought you were going to fuck up and get me killed, like it was all on you, or something. You didn’t trust me at all.”  
  
The pause stretches out long enough to get uncomfortable. Jim starts to fidget.   
  
“You saved my life, Jim. I trust you,” McCoy replies eventually.   
  
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” says Jim, sounding frustrated. “I want you to know that you can’t be expected to be responsible for me. I can take care of myself.”  
  
“I know that, Jim. It doesn’t mean I won’t still try and keep your ass safe.” McCoy sounds resigned, sad. “Shit happens, that changes how you deal with things. I can’t help wanting to make sure I don’t repeat past mistakes.”  
  
“Okay. Then I just want you to know, Bones, it works both ways,” Jim says firmly, passing McCoy his last piece of bacon.   
  
McCoy takes it, and he licks his fingers, and says, “I think I finally figured that out, kid.”  


oOo

  
  
“What if she doesn’t like me?”  
  
“She’s ten years old, Jim. As far as I can tell, she likes  _everyone_. She even likes her teachers, and the little boy that keeps pushing her down at recess. Besides, you’re giving her a present. She’ll love you forever.”  
  
The silence that follows is unfortunately incredibly brief. “What if she hates what I got her?”  
  
“If you don’t shut up right now I’ll –- oh, that’s their gate, you wait here while I go meet her and greet the ex-wife before she takes off again.”  
  
“I don’t get to meet Jocelyn?”  
  
“No. Absolutely not. Just...stay, Jim.”  
  
Jim stays. He even sits, flopping down on an empty bench as he watches the crowds come and go, keeping an eye on the gate. Eventually, McCoy walks back through, and he’s holding the hand of a little girl wrapped in a thick, fluffy purple winter coat. She’s got glossy dark brown hair pulled back in pigtails, and even from here, Jim can see the resemblance.   
  
He stands up when they approach, clutching the wrapped present and feeling unaccountably nervous.   
  
McCoy lets go her hand as they approach, and says, “Jim, this is Joanna. Jojo, this is Jim. Say hello, now.”  
  
“Hello,” she says, raising green eyes to Jim’s and giving him a shy, slightly-suspicious smile that’s McCoy all the way through.   
  
Jim breaks out into a grin. “Hey, Jo. It’s very nice to finally meet you.” He shakes her mittened hand gravely. “You look just like your daddy.”

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [bullets may singe](https://archiveofourown.org/works/865136) by [spikeface](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spikeface/pseuds/spikeface)




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